


sharper than a blade

by trespresh



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Cunnilingus, Drabble, F/M, Face-Sitting, Minor Tommy/Tatiana Petrovna, literally cannot remember the last time I wrote heterosexual pwp?, truly just a quick self-indulgent thing whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh
Summary: “You’ve got a dangerous face, Mr. Shelby,” she says, quiet, smiling in a private sort of way.“How’s that, Mrs. Shelby?”





	sharper than a blade

**Author's Note:**

> *does nothing for like two years, pops head up for the drabbliest pwp ever*
> 
> guess who's rewatching the show! here have a teensy thing

It’s with the Duchess’s dainty hand, surprisingly firm on his throat and squeezing just hard enough that he has to gasp through the sobs, flat on his back, his eyes dazed and staring unseeing at the ceiling, that he drifts—

 

_A warm room on a cold night, the fire crackling and casting orange shadows across her face. They’ve both emptied several glasses of whisky while he’s been trailing lazy fingers up and down her smooth, bare legs, and Grace is looking at him with those soft eyes, her sweet, pretty face framed by waving hair. Christ, does he love her._

_“You’ve got a dangerous face, Mr. Shelby,” she says, quiet, smiling in a private sort of way._

_“How’s that, Mrs. Shelby?”_

_He’s reclined against the pillows of their bed in their comfortable, safe room, where nobody expects anything from him, where he doesn’t have to hide anything or construct games or spin words of double meaning. Grace is smiling at him so amusedly, flirtatiously in the way that too many glasses of whisky will inspire. He will play any game she wants, do anything she asks._

_She raises cool fingers to his brow and says, “Your eyes, Mr. Shelby.” Her thumb catches the line of his lower lip while he watches her teasing smile continue, “the sinful words this mouth speaks.” He kisses her thumb before it moves up to trace bone with her nail. “And your cheekbones,” she tuts._

_“What of my cheekbones?”_

_“Sharper than a blade, Mr. Shelby. A lady could cut her thighs on those cheekbones. Dangerous.”_

_He tilts his head back, pushing into the pillows. There’s a wicked twitch at the corner of his mouth, a salacious swipe of his tongue over his lips._

_“A blade, eh? Give it a try then,” he says, smoky soft and instantly burning for it._

_When she swings a knee over his neck and he can lift his hands to rest on her hips, pull her down even as she twists fingers through his hair and tugs his head up into her—when he can’t breathe except for the scent of her, his tongue against her, his hands gripping at her hips as she rocks down—when he opens his eyes and looks up the line of her body, up at her face twisted, taking her pleasure from him that he’s so eager to give, his face wet with it—_  


Then, the Duchess pulls her hand away, and he comes so hard his vision goes white.


End file.
